Johnny Salami

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

This time it was about a panel of experts blowing hot gas about who should be VP.

Here we go again: highly paid experts telling us what we think. Has anyone ever noticed they're wrong more often than the psychics in the National Enquirer? Shouldn't they take a cut in pay every time they goof? If a customer skips on a bill, the waitress pays. Fair is fair.

And look at the soup we're in. We got there listening to experts and following politicians who made a big thing out of their "decency."

It's way past time to put slobs in charge for a while. We may not be better off as a society, but at least we won't have to kow-tow to religion. This "no strip joints within 1,000 feet of a church" thing is not only for the birds, it's very inconvenient.

Friday, April 4, 2008

An on-line publication - can it BE a publication if it's not on paper? - had a story about the "scandal" involving Barak Obama and his alleged smoking. Apparently he's had trouble quitting. I couldn't help myself. I had to reply, and pronto. Here's the text of my statesman-like remarks:

What a steamin' pile of horse dookey. I started smoking at 9, stealing the Old Man's Chesterfields (non-filter) and thinking I looked cool. In my case, it was true. But the fact that a guy had problems quitting is a mark against him? Get the fuck out.

I quit after 22 years without any problems, and I have 6 ex-wives, a lifelong affinity for marijuana, haven't been to church in 45 years and am on a first-name basis with literally dozens of strippers. In short, I am a vile man. But I quit smokin' and never looked back!

So vote for me. My platform is simple: a whorehouse on every corner and two in the middle of the block. At least that's one way to stop these murderous shooting sprees at college.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

I haven't been feeling too well lately and I've also been eating a lot of bananas and oranges. (I'm turning into a chimp.)

Anyway, I exerted myself in therapy and neglected to drink enough water. Stupid people trying to sound knowledgeable about something other than Dancing With The Stars call drinking water "hydrating," but no matter; I didn't do enough of it.

So the doctor assigned to me, Dr. Dube (pronounced "doo-bee" because I think he's smoked a few too many) told me that my heartbeat indicated I was having a coronary - again, stupid-speak for a heart attack - and that I had a 50% chance of dying so they had to get me to the hospital "stat." That's stupid-speak for toot sweet, mucho pronto, mach schnell and right away. So here I am, writing down info how to see to it that your cousin gets my house and stuff, then I was loaded into the ambulance like a deer tied down on some moron's hood.

In the ambulance, they told me the 50% prognosis was questionable at best. I asked if, on the off chance this was my last ride if they could PLEASE stop playing the fucking Christmas music. Fortunately, they complied. But while they had me, they tried to draw blood while the ambulance - I found out stupid-speak for that particular piece of junk was "the ambo" - was jouncing over city streets that had holes bigger than those meteor craters on Mars. Needless to say, they weren't succesful after multiple stabbings.

Then when I got to the "E-Room" - stupid-speak for the Emergency Room - the nurses tried again. These women are vicious and sadists. They jabbed the back of hy hand, tha inside of my wrist, my forearm (twice) and the crook of me elbow. I looked like St. fucking Sebastian (look him up). After a few tries I suggested they try my right arm, since it's as dead as Julius Caesar. No soap. Apparently it's "unethical" to take blood from a paralyzed arm. "Why," I asked, "because it can't feel pain?!?"

Well, they got the blood and then asked ne for a urine sample. "Why do you need piss when you already have blood?" No answer. Good thing they didn't ask for a stool sample; I would have busted a chair over somebody's teeth at that point and said, "There's your fuckin' stool sample!"

After two hours on a gurney that had a bar perfectly placed to mangle my ass they said I could go. But not before the nurse had to tell me she was "a Christian" and didn't appreciate my swearing by using the word "a-s-s". I told her she was lucky they let me go then because I was about to say "f-u-c-k."

So today the doctor came in to see me and find out how I was. I asked if he got his docterate in wood shop, pointed out that if I had a sick hamster I wouldn't let him treat it, and asked if he was an actual Polak or just an honorary one. I realize there's a certain Slavic component to your makeup, and I apologize. But you get the concept, I'm sure; there's enough Salami there to overcome the people of the steppe in your genetic pool.

Monday, November 26, 2007

If you're like me, an "erotic massage" usually constitutes scuttling into a tawdry dump, paying Mama-san a hundred bucks and getting a a quick "happy ending" from some broad that charged you an extra twenty to take off her top - revealing a pair of boobs that look like cucumbers or maybe saddle bags - and who keeps looking at her watch and asking if you're close yet. Did I mention she's snapping her gum the whole while and wearing something "sexy" that even Frederick's Of Hollywood wouldn't sell?

But when women want an erotic massage, you're in for a real horror show: scented candles, bubble baths and white wine. Now, if you're somebody who doesn't mind this beeswax you're probably massaging some a wasp-waisted figure skater named Raul. But for the majority of guys this can be a situation to be avoided at all costs. You could wind up in a black satin thong rubbing down the old lady or facing the consequences. It's a feeling a Christian Scientist with appendicitis know only too well.

We've all been there. You're watching the game, knocking back a cold one or minding your own business smoking a bowl in the basement so the kids won't find out and raid your stash, then BOOM! She springs out at you in a red see-through number (that you don't particularly want to see through) and smelling like she spent your next week's weed money at Bath And Body Works.

Short of ripping your shoulder out of the socket discreetly while she's lighting the scented candles - the ones that cost ten buck and have fruity names like "English Rose" "Midnight Passion" or Almond Berry" - you're probably sunk.

In that case, do your best to get it over with quickly. Rub some of the lesser-repulsive parts - feet are always a good bet unless she has six toes like my fourth wife - and get down to business. Don't forget to make those ugly faces like porno actors do to show there really into it. Try saying some stuff, too. I've always had good luck with things like, "Oh yeah, Baby, I'm gonna tear this UP!" and "They call me MISTER Tibbs".

With any luck she'll go for it. If you do alright she may even make you a ham sandwich later, but generally only if you sold your soul to Satan and actually given her an all-over massage, you traitor.

The old slap and tickle is your best bet and beside, you've probably been doing it for 20 years anyhow, so the shock has worn off. Chances she'll be basking in the rosy afterglow and you can stage an escape before she wants to cuddle.

With the continuing Search For Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI for short) looking more and more like a Miami Dolphin game we should start facing up to an ugly possibility. Maybe we're the oldest and wisest civilization around. The idea gives me the Willies too, but at some point we're going to have to suck it up and act accordingly.

I realize how difficult it is to pry humans away from the notion that a race of huge-brained aliens will land on earth and explain the great mysteries of life to us. We'd want to know why we're here, what the meaning of life is, if there is a God (and why He hates the Chicago Cubs) and which horse will win the 6th race at Aquaduct next Monday. But we keep coming up empty and should face up to the evidence that all this bupkis is a clear sign we're alone out there. Maybe there are no wise aliens or even Brain-Eating Monsters. We could be it.

The most promising evidence for creatures from Outer Space remains the Roswell incident, and that isn't very hopeful. Think about it. A Flying Saucer navigated past black hokes, meteor swarms, super novas, comets and gamma rays only to crash after getting tangled up in some telephone wires. That doesn't sound very intelligent to me. I'd actually be embarassed to have creatures like that eat my brain. And since that seems to be it, we've got some decisions to make.

We should start planning now for the possibility that the other races out there are like a kid brother. I'm not suggesting we knock them down, sit on their face and fart, but we ought to prepare for the eventuality. The good stuff is obvious, but only makes up a fraction of what we are. For every Mozart there's more than one Hank Williams Jr., and for every Acropolis, St. Sophia, Sphinx, Taj Mahal and Hanging Garden of Babylom there are dozens of NASCAR tracks. And how do we explain that statue of Rocky we've got in Philly?

So do what do we let on about this? Do we tell them about the Three Stooges, and Cop Rock or drift around in long robes like we're wise and peaceful beings and show pictures of Mahatma Ghandi? Are we going to act kind and benevolent or let them watch Arnold Schwarzenegger movies? What about hockey?

These are critical decisions and we have to work on them now, before we encounter these beings. Because I tell you, if they ever find out the truth about humans it may actually trigger that brain eating we've all read about.